For Him I Was the Mistress, but I Was Only Getting Paid

I’m going to tell this once and for all, because I’m sick of being slapped with a label I never asked for. To the woman spying on me from a distance, the one who sneaks into my groups pretending to be innocent: I don’t fall in love with my clients. That’s the first thing you learn in this line of work. Your husband came looking for me, paid me, and came back as many times as he wanted, and that’s his problem, not mine.

Don’t come at me like you know me, because you know nothing about me. Take your issues up with him, not with me. I’m a sex worker, not anybody’s “mistress.” And if that story hurts you so much, go pray and ask for another man who’s actually worth it, instead of chaining one down with a child when you know he doesn’t love you.

That said, I’m going to tell you how it all started, because the truth belongs to me, not the version she’s been passing around.

***

This started several years ago, when I’d only been in the business a short time and my hands still shook before every encounter. Damián showed up, married, and first he got hooked on what I offered and then, without anyone asking him to, on everything else. I took him for what he was: a work opportunity, another client on the schedule.

Over time I learned something about myself. I’m a temptation for a certain kind of man. It’s not sex addiction, because if it were, they’d do it with anyone; it’s a specific desire, targeted, something even they don’t really understand. Damián was the clearest proof of that theory. In the first month he must have seen me a lot of times, and I wasn’t exactly cheap.

When you do this kind of work, you keep your feet firmly on the ground. Work is work, and it doesn’t matter whether the client is single, married, or divorced. But you’re also human, and sometimes little things happen that weren’t in the contract.

***

I remember the first day as if it were yesterday. He showed up in a car that was a total wreck, the kind that looks like it’s going to fall apart at the next corner. It didn’t faze me in the least. I got in and, since the passenger seat basically didn’t exist, I sat on an empty beer crate. He looked at me and laughed at himself.

“Hi, Roxy. Sorry about the rolling junk heap,” he said, and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

I laughed, I think just from nerves. He got the engine going on the third try and we headed to a cheap motel in the area, the one we’d arranged beforehand by message.

Once in the room, and because he’d asked for it, I changed. I put on the lingerie that suited me best: a red lace set, bra and thong, fishnet stockings, and stilettos in the same color. I think it was exactly there, in that second when I came out of the bathroom, that something broke inside him.

He took a quick shower while I waited sprawled on the bed, playing with the edge of my stocking, two fingers slid under my thong, warming myself up so that by the time he came out of the bathroom I was already wet. The room smelled like that cheap motel-soap perfume, mixed with the stale heat of the radiator. Through the cracked-open window came the noise of the avenue, horns, a bus braking. Nothing romantic. And yet, inside there, everything turned into something else.

When he came out of the bathroom, he looked me up and down slowly, like someone running over something he doesn’t want to forget. He dropped the towel, and that was when I saw him completely for the first time: his cock already half-hard, thick, hanging heavy between his legs. He came to the bed without taking his eyes off me. He kissed me softly at first, testing, and then with hunger, as if he wanted to eat my whole mouth, pushing his tongue all the way in, biting my lip. His hands were big and warm, and he slid them down my back until they hooked into the thong’s elastic.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured against my neck. “You’re a gorgeous whore, Roxy.”

“Say it again,” I asked, arching against his mouth.

“A gorgeous whore. Mine for this afternoon.”

He yanked my bra down without unhooking it and let my tits spill out. He latched onto one nipple and sucked hard, closing his teeth just enough to make a moan slip out of me. He kneaded the other breast with his hand, pinching me, while I grabbed the back of his neck and pressed his face against my chest. He went lower slowly, sucking my stomach, biting my hip, until he reached the thong. He pulled it to one side with his teeth and stayed there, breathing over my cunt before he even touched it.

“You’re already soaked, whore.”

“Eat me out,” I told him, not bothering to hide anything.

It didn’t take long for him to flip me over and put me on my back again, prying my legs wide open. He worked his way over my whole body with his tongue, unhurried, digging deep, lingering where he knew I wouldn’t be able to keep still. He parted my lips with two fingers and licked my clit with the tip of his tongue, in slow circles, then faster, then sucking me down like I was a piece of candy. He slid two fingers inside, curling them upward, searching for that spot deep inside that made my thighs tremble. I grabbed his hair and shoved his face into my cunt while I arched my back and soaked his mouth. There was a moment when I no longer knew who was the client and who was providing the service, because he was doing me so well. I came like that, against his tongue, squeezing his head between my thighs, not even remembering my own name.

Until I came out of the trance and got back to business. I grabbed him, shoved him backward onto the mattress, and settled myself between his legs. I looked at his cock up close: thick, veins standing out, the head already shiny. I ran my tongue from his balls to the top in one long stroke, and heard the growl he let out. I took it all the way into my mouth, pushing until it hit the back of my throat, and stayed there for a few seconds, swallowing with him inside me. I came up with strings of saliva hanging from my chin and took him back in, now fast, using my hand at the base, toying with his balls with the other. I started working his cock slowly with my mouth, keeping him on the edge more and more, while he stared at me as if it were the first time in his life.

“Like that, whore, suck me like that,” he panted, with his hand buried in my hair, setting the rhythm.

I sucked the head with my lips tight, circling it with my tongue, and took him back down to the hilt. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he asked for it. And I gave it to him.

I got on all fours on the bed, ass up and face smashed into the mattress, and showed him everything. He was careful, as he should be, put on the condom, and ran the tip of his cock over the lips of my cunt, rubbing it up and down, dirtying it in my own wetness. He entered me slowly, making me feel every centimeter, opening me little by little until his pelvis was pressed hard against my ass. He stayed there for a second, breathing hard, gripping my hips.

“You’re so tight, you fucking bitch.”

And he started. At first gently, pulling almost all the way out and then sliding all the way back in, but soon he lost control of the rhythm and started pounding hard, his skin slapping my ass, making a sound every time he crashed into me. He grabbed my hair, yanked my head back, and drove deeper into me, repeating one word through his teeth: “my whore.” He said it in my ear, drenched in saliva, while he kept fucking me with all his force.

“Say it too,” he asked me.

“I’m your whore,” I answered, biting the pillow. “Break me, Damián, break me.”

He turned me over without taking it out, until I was on my side, one leg over his shoulder, and kept fucking me like that, looking at me while he groped one of my tits. Then he laid me on my back, opened my legs until my knees pressed against my shoulders, and drove into me again, now face-to-face, with the weight of his whole body on top of me. I could see his jaw clenched, the veins in his neck standing out. He spat between my tits and slid his hand down there, while he fucked me harder, deeper.

He made me come again like that, with him inside me, with his thumb circling my clit, and when he felt me clenching all over his cock, he held out just long enough not to come with me. He pulled out, ripped off the condom, and finished on my face and in my mouth in spurts, gripping his cock with his fist and milking the last drops against my lips. I swallowed what I could and showed him the rest on my tongue.

That nickname, “my whore,” which at the time was just heat, eventually turned into an obsession for him.

***

Because after that afternoon, not a day went by without him wanting to see me. He texted me early in the morning before going to work, and at night when he was already back home. At first I answered with the proper coldness of any client. Then, little by little, I started replying a bit faster than the business required.

And so, encounter after encounter, the years went by. What began as a transaction took on another shape: he still paid, he was still a client, but between us there had appeared a strange affection, the kind you don’t name so you don’t break it. Sometimes we’d lie in bed talking longer than he had paid for, his hand playing between my legs out of pure habit, unhurried, and I didn’t charge him for those minutes. That, now I know, was my first mistake.

One day he surprised me with a different request. He wanted me to go with him to the eye doctor, because he’d had an accident at work and had trouble seeing out of one eye. I did it from the heart, without charging him, and I think that was my mistake. Those things confuse people, and they confused him completely.

I have to clarify something separately, because it’s the missing piece to understand the mess. At some point he agreed to film content with me for my page. Raw videos, unedited, in which I sucked his cock on my knees, rode him on top, or he fucked me from behind while I looked at the camera and said filthy things. That was the trigger for the whole saga in which I became the supposed mistress.

***

The first blowup came in the middle of the pandemic. He texted me in a panic: his wife had found one of the videos in which we appeared together, right from my period of greatest exposure. He asked me, almost begging, to take them down, because otherwise his world was about to come crashing down.

It came crashing down anyway.

I got angry. I told him what I thought: that we weren’t lovers, that he paid me for a service, and that if any affection had shown up, it was an extra I never billed him for. And I blocked him. Just like that, overnight, no discussion. For years I heard nothing from him.

Until one day he came back.

***

He came back asking for what he always had, but with different words. He told me he missed me, that he needed to feel again what he’d felt that first afternoon. I, who am not one to hold onto eternal grudges when money is involved, opened the door for him again. And I opened my legs too, because the guy paid well and fucked even better than before.

And what happened after that is proven by the videos we filmed again, the same ones I uploaded to my free Telegram channel, a group with thousands of followers that took me years to build. There I was, sucking him off with my eyes closed, or riding him with my back turned, moving my ass in circles while I squeezed my tits for the camera. In one of them you could hear me say “my love” while he was fucking me deep. For me it was work, content, private life. Privacy, precisely, something she never respected.

Because the movie repeated almost exactly the same way. A few days after we got back together, on December 24th, just before Christmas Eve, I got a message from him. It was a forward of something his wife had written to him, and it said, in so many words, that he was almost going to be a father again, that “his prostitute” was late, that she had already seen the new video in which he called me “my love” while I filmed my production.

I froze. How did she know I was late?

***

The answer was as simple as it was unbelievable. She got into my free channel pretending to be just another follower, read everything I posted, and spied on me. But that wasn’t enough for her. She also got into my private group, the VIP, paying for a subscription like any other client, and there she saw and heard everything I had uploaded: the full videos of her husband fucking me, every load I got out of him, every time I called him a fucker and he called me a whore.

In other words: for a long time the husband was paying me, and in the end the wife ended up paying me too. The two ends of the same story, funding me without meaning to. When it finally clicked, I didn’t know whether to laugh or applaud.

I had no choice but to freeze him out again. I blocked him again, but this time I told him everything I thought before I did. I told him how unfair the role they’d assigned me between the two of them was: the mistress, the homewrecker, the villain in their marriage. When I was nothing more than a simple sex worker charging for my time, my pussy, and my mouth.

***

That’s the whole story, without the edited bits she’s been passing from mouth to mouth. I didn’t make anyone fall in love. I didn’t promise anything. I didn’t get into a bed that hadn’t already been opened to me.

If a relationship falls apart, it doesn’t fall apart because of the woman who charges a fee. It falls apart long before that, in the silence of a house where a man goes outside looking for what he can’t find inside. I was just there, on the other end of the phone, offering a service he chose to pay for again and again. If you want to blame someone, look at the bed you sleep in, not mine.

For years I carried a name that didn’t belong to me. The mistress. The other woman. The one who ruins families. And all the while I paid my rent, supported my people, and built my business on my own, without taking a single peso from anyone who wasn’t willing to give it. I didn’t break any vow, because I never vowed anything. The one who promised was him, in front of an altar I wasn’t even invited to.

So, ma’am, let it go already. Don’t worry, I didn’t end up pregnant with anything from him. And the next time you want to spy on my life, at least pay for the subscription like you did last time. At this point, you already know the way.

Happy for me, because I slept peacefully that Christmas.